


the five times oikawa held his tongue, and the one time he didn't

by krystallisert



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Friends With Benefits, If You Squint - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Smut, is it political? is it debate club? who knows, vague rivals au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 11:19:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15387639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krystallisert/pseuds/krystallisert
Summary: in which oikawa makes a fearful discovery





	the five times oikawa held his tongue, and the one time he didn't

**Author's Note:**

> hello lol

**(the first time)**

 you don't like oikawa tooru; despise the way his grin stretches too wide when he's about to make a point you won't be able to argue with, nausea rising to your throat when his eyes twinkle when he realizes a debate has been one. 

 likewise, oikawa tooru does not like you; hates the way your dresses are fit to perfectly accentuate your curves, cannot stand the way your mouth curls into a self-satisfied smirk when you manage to leave him speechless during debates. point being; you and oikawa do not get along. it's a well known fact, a sort of infamous rivalry that's observed with both concern and amusement. so then, knowing that, imagine this: 

 you re-enter the main gala hall first, hair visibly less put together than the perfectly styled do you arrived with; the clean, tidy lines of your tight cocktail dress rumpled as you try to smooth down the fabric - you probably think the attempt is subtle - at your waist with a not-so-steady hand. your gaze is shifty, scouting the room for intruding onlookers, mouth turned down in a grim line; the distinct look of something that's not _quite_ regret, but pretty damn close visible on your face.

and then, a moment later, oikawa tooru enters, head poking in from the hallway first. there's a sort of wildness to his curls that wasn't there before, a faint blush dusted onto his pretty cheekbones. he tucks his shirt back into his dress pants, re-adjusts his collar and tightens his tie. he scans the room, almost as if his gaze is pulled towards you by pure magnetism, and he looks like he wants to say something; mouth half open and a sort of lingering in the way his hand curls around his tie, slides down to smooth over the creases of his shirt. 

he doesn't, of course; blends into the crowd of esteemed politicians and semi-celebrities with the blink of an eye. but to everyone who has just observed this private, illicit scene, a sort of knowing hum echoes through the room.

 

**(the second time)**

you don't enjoy oikawa's company. that much is apparent in the aggressive, almost violent way you tug at his hair; in the frustrated bite at his bottom lip when he pulls your pants and your underwear down in one swift move. his nails rake against your skin, coaxes out a moan that oikawa would've taken care to make fun of, had he not been too busy reveling in the hot wetness between your thighs. you hate him for that, too; for the sudden gentleness in his touch as he rubs slow, maddening circles around your clit, sucks at the most sensitive part of your neck.

"you're such an ass," you hiss, fumbling over the syllables as oikawa presses his weight against you, his jean-clad erection hard at your thigh. he grinds his hip against you, hums out a smooth, low sound that echoes in waves and vibrations against the pulse at your throat. "do you even believe the words that come out of your own mouth?"

and oikawa doesn't care for that, for your harsh words and the fervency with which you say them. he's not a big fan of how you pull away when he goes to kiss you, or how you palm him over his pants but never move to unbuckle his belt. he hates how you want him to beg for it, a cleverness to your gaze and a teasing slant to your lips. 

but he likes this; your tongue against the shaft of his cock, the nails of your fingers making deep crescents in the skin of his thighs. the warmth of your mouth around him, the hooded, dark gaze you grant him with. he whines, bucks up against you to make you take more of him, and quirk a brow as if to tell him to be patient. he kinda likes that, too.

he bites down on his own lip, tilts his head back to hide the expression on his face, and oikawa says nothing.

 

**(the third time)**

"what's with oikawa these days?" hinata asks, glances around you to look at the taller brunet. as such, the short redhead does not notice the momentary grimace on your face, nor the way you awkwardly adjust the collar of your turtleneck. you clear your throat, take a long, slow chug of your drink. 

"who knows?" you mutter tightly. hinata leans back, hums in the way that he does when he somehow knows something's not right, but can't quite figure it out. 

"he keeps staring this way," he mutters, rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. 

"maybe he's got a crush on you," you reply with a sing-song, too high voice that causes even you to cringe. hinata stares, eyes shifting back and forth between you and your silver tongued rival. he considers, grimaces, then shrugs. how easy it must be, being hinata. 

"looks like he's got something to say."

this makes you turn, allowing yourself a quick glance. true enough, oikawa is staring; eyes locked instantly with yours, deep, brown irises filled to the brim with intent. you can't exactly pin point what that intent _is_ , though, so you simply frown, turn back to your companion with an easy swirl. "you know oikawa," you mutter, voice laced with intent. "if he wants to say something, not even the threat of torture could stop him." 

but oikawa doesn't speak, doesn't approach you once in the four hours you're both confined to the dinner party. he doesn't say a word. 

 

**(the fourth time)**

the closet is cramped, and smells kinda funny. not at all the ideal place for a romantic rendezvous. good thing, then, oikawa supposes, that there's nothing even remotely romantic about the way he scrunches up your skirt, presses a thumb against the front of your lingere. for a fleeting moment, he wonders if your bra matches, if you'd been anticipating this. the thought makes him want to press his palm against himself, makes a groan bubble at the back of his throat. 

"you're taking too long," you mutter from somewhere above him. oikawa is snapped out of his reverie. he pulls aside your panties.

it's with his mouth clamped down on the innermost parts of your thighs, his tongue swirling in broad strokes around your clit, that oikawa chances a glance up at you, at your red face and your mouth pressed tightly over your mouth and your eyes squeezed shut, that oikawa comes to a startling realization. your moans might be muffled, your stance steadied by a hand gripping too tight at his dark locks of hair, but you look positively unraveled nonetheless; undone and unhinged and absolutely beautiful. 

and the realization that oikawa comes to is this: he wants to keep looking at you. he wants to see this face more often, to be the cause of the low sting of curses slipping out of your mouth and between your fingers. a word bubbles at the back of his throat. he chokes on it and decides instead to press his face harder against you, to push two fingers in between your folds and relish in your accidental, undoubtedly embarrassing whine. 

at least that manages to shut his racing mind up. 

 

**(the fifth time)**

there's no way of knowing how it happens, but somehow the two of you fall into a rhythm. you still fight relentlessly on the podium, still disagree in most anything to do with politics, but once work is done and over with, you meet up for drinks. you sit next to each other at the booth of low-end diners. oikawa introduces you to iwaizumi.

that's not to say the intimate moments stop. oh no, if anything, they happen more often; meetings made convenient by a budding friendship making your paths cross more often. oikawa slips his hand in between your thighs under tables, and in revenge you suck his cock in alleyways behind bars, popping him out of your mouth just as he's about to come. oikawa didn't have a name for it before, but he hesitates to take this new one into his mouth;

friends with benefits.

so he doesn't.

and then something weird happens-

 

**(the one time)**

oikawa doesn't consider himself a boring person. he's been up for a few freaky things he'd probably deny were they ever brought up. somehow, though, the most intense experience in his life turns out to be good, old sex in the missionary position; lights off, no rush, no strings attached, no pressure. he feels the slight buzz of the red wine you'd offered him earlier that evening; a reward for an agreement made in business. he feels you clamp around his cock, feels your fingers carefully threading through his hair, your breath ghosting over his skin. he presses his nose into the juncture where your shoulder meets your neck, light kisses peppered into your skin.

there's no need for quick, hurried thrusts, no need to finish quickly; you've got all the time in the world. instead, oikawa moves slowly, takes his time, lets his fingers rake over every part of your body he can get access to. he hits the right spot, feels your arms wind tightly around his neck. he feels full, content; but scared, too. too full, maybe, too content. he won't know, unless-

"i'm in love with you," he whispers, lifts himself up on his elbows to squint at you in the darkness. with only the street lamps outside providing light, he can't see much at all, just the barest twinkle of your eyes as you blink once, twice, three times. oikawa thinks he finally understands what people were talking about when they spoke of time slowing to a complete halt in those big, potentially life-changing moments. your arms are loose around his neck, but you do not retract them. he chooses to take that as a good thing.

"okay," you whisper back, twirl a lock of his hair around your index finger. he feels the strands at the back of his neck getting pulled at, the sensation sending shivers down his spine. 

"okay?" he repeats, needy for something more, something like a confirmation; a rejection or a reciprocation, at this point he'll take anything. "you're okay with that?"

you hum, slide a hand down to caress the side of his face; thumb rubbing at the outermost part of his cheekbone. "i'm more than okay with that." 

and when you pull at his face, press your lips against his, it feels almost like a first. slow, almost hesitant moves, careful nibs of teeth against soft, plump lips. oikawa forgets to breathe, presses his entire body against you. of course, this kiss is far from the first, it's not even the first one that comes without anger or aggression. but he supposes, in a way,

that it's the first one that matters.

 


End file.
